


next time

by halseyxkristen



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:49:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halseyxkristen/pseuds/halseyxkristen
Summary: Baz teaches creative writing and Simon's one of his students. Uni au.





	next time

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i just want daria to enjoy this a little idk i hope i didn't disrespect or mispresent your faves

The place is as crowded as ever. The hectic movements of people five minutes before class, accompanied by the eternally rainy weather give him a slight sense of claustrophobia.  People rarely miss that class; most front seats are taken and he feels baffled by the amount of girls that are touching up their make-up, squinting their eyes to the reflection in the front cameras of their phones.  The heavy eyebags resting underneath suggest their effort to show up. If one didn’t know better, one would wonder how come people are so interested in a creative writing class that takes place four times a week.

It is eight in the morning on a cloudy Thursday and Simon Snow has just noticed a pretty large coffee stain on his plain white t-shirt.  As minutes pass everyone’s voices diminishes from shouts to bare whispers.

Shuffles of papers can be heard across the room, as the professor strangely doesn’t allow people using computers in his class. Something about a recent study that proves students can concentrate better and retain more information if they rely simply on a pen and piece of paper. The requirement would have been met with reproaches and disagreement, especially since it’s a new thing for them. The previous professor allowed basically anything that eased the students. But he wasn’t nearly as, well, as _broody_ _and witty_ as this one.

The large wooden door opens and a tall, slender silhouette enters the room.

“Good morning, class.” The words are spoken rather quietly as pale fingers pick up a piece of chalk and write the surname “Pitch” on the large blackboard.

Simon snorts unintentionally, rolling his eyes. As if people don’t already know the name of their creative writing professor. It’s been three entire months since he’s been teaching there.

Plus, it’s not like anyone would ever forget him, even if they wanted to. He must admit his physique and extensive knowledge is quite _aesthetically and mentally pleasing._ The fact that he can’t be more than 25 doesn’t exactly hurt the cause either.

“Today we’re going to start quite a meaningful story for universal literature.” Mr. Pitch runs a hand through his long, dark hair, inhales, then continues “this lecture and analysys will hopefully offer everyone, or some of you, _at least_ inspiration and knowledge on writing.”

Simon swears he sees him smirking for a split second. But the professor hides the curve of his lips as quickly as it appeared.

Some girl raises her hand, and Simon is almost disgusted at the blatant flirty smile resting on her features. “Mr. Pitch, so basically we’re going to write better after analysing this random book?”

A few other people chuckle at the seemingly idiotic question. It’s so obvious her goal was to get attention from him that it’s almost painful.

He doesn’t seem to be too bothered by it, though.

“Yes, miss Young. That’s the point.” He seems slightly irritated. Simon’s glad someone’s at least managed to elicit a reaction from him. “Now, if there are no more questions, I’d like to continue.”

Simon can’t help but notice the way his hair washes over his dark eyebrows and the fact that his black tie suits perfectly his gray shirt.

“We’re going to study ‘The Birthmark’ by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I know not many of you may have heard of it, but it will have to be read by Monday.”

A few grumbles can be heard within the large room, to which he shows a rare laugh.

“I’m sorry to be ruining your weekend, by the way.”

The manner he says it could almost be taken for playful, if Simon didn’t know better.

Basilton Pitch has proven himself to be an exceptional professor, there’s no denying that. He’s better than the previous professors Simon’s had over the past two years of university. He must be universally brilliant since he’s managed to acquire the job of a professor at such a young age. However, he’s not nearly as open as the others. It’s rare times that he shares a personal detail with the class, and to be fair, Simon finds that rather sad.

“So. The Birthmark. What does the title say to you?”

More than a dozen hands raised. People interract with him, which is something out of the ordinary and it still surprises Simon.

“A birthmark being the centre of a conflict, or attention maybe?” someone asks

Mr. Pitch nods approvingly.

“Alright class. Aylmer is a brilliant and recognized scientist and philosopher who has dropped his focus from his career and experiments to marry the beautiful Georgiana ,who is physically perfect except for a small red birthmark in the shape of a hand on her cheek. As the story progresses, Aylmer becomes unnaturally obsessed with the birthmark on Georgiana's cheek. One night, he dreams of cutting the birthmark out of his wife's cheek and then continuing all the way to her heart. He does not remember this dream until Georgiana asks about what his sleep-talking meant. When Aylmer remembers the details of his dream, Georgiana declares that she would risk her life having the birthmark removed from her cheek rather than to continue to endure Aylmer's horror and distress that comes upon him when he sees her.”

His eyes shine as he retells the story probably the tenth time. Simon wonders how it feels for the professor to speak of something that he seems so attached to in front of fifty people. He wonders if Basilton Pitch feels uncomfortable at the vulnerability that comes with sharing something you know so much of.

“The following day, Aylmer deliberates upon and then decides to take Georgiana to the apartments where he keeps a laboratory. He glances at Georgiana casually and normally but can't help but shudder violently at seeing her imperfection; Aylmer's reaction causes her to faint. When she awakens, he treats her warmly and comforts her with some of his scientific concoctions but when he attempts to take a portrait of her, the image is blurred save for her birthmark revealing the disgust he has of it.”

He stops all of a sudden, the ghost of a grin on his face as he watches the students eager to hear the continuation.  

Simon has to recognize that his interest has been piqued. He feels like he’s heard of the story somewhere, maybe in his childhood, when the kind old lady down the street used to flood his mind with a range of stories. He wonders, for a split second, if his passion for writing has some roots in those times as well. He’s read once that our fingerprints don’t fade away from the lives we touch. Is that real, or is it just poetic bullshit?

“And in order to make sure that the story will actually be read, I’m going to stop there with the synopsys.”

So that’s why he grinned. Of course he finds an odd pleasure in keeping his students under suspense.

Simon can feel his eyelids slowly blurring his vision; a reminder of the fact that he shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night, writing dumb poetry.

It feels hardly noticeable as he slips in and out of consciousness during the second half of the class. The words of his professor –some stuff about writing prompts regarding deconstructing the ambiguity of time when writing flashbacks- are starting to slowly mingle into a mess in the back of his mind, slipping in and out of his consciousness.

He barely feels the cup of coffee resting on his desk fade away from his fingertips and fall down onto the floor. But he immediately wakes at the feeling of something wet on his shoes.

His eyes flicker down immediately, and for a split second he prays nobody’s noticed. But he soon realises that’s impossible, considering coffee is currently scattered on his desk _and_ the floor.

He’s not surprised to find the frowning, irritated face of Basilton Pitch looking down at him, right in the front of his desk.

Simon can already feel the blood rushing through his cheeks.

_Great. There couldn’t have been a better time for this embarrassment._

Mr. Pitch is looking at the others now. He gestures to Simon.

“Is anyone interested in educating Mr. Snow here on the manner coffee should be drunk?” there’s almost a mischievous spark in his dark eyes.

A few snicker, others snort.

“No? Alright then. Mr. Snow, I’d like to inform you that from now on I expect you to show up to my class _without_ any kind of liquids. Since you’re not familiar with consuming them rightly. And, since you’re finding my class so, utterly dull, maybe you’d fancy going for a walk.” He gestures towards the door.

“Mr. Pitch, I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your-“

“No time for apologies. Please.” His face is serious now, as he elegantly closes Simon’s book. “Thank you for your attendance today.”

Simon’s had enough. Sure, it may have bothered the class for a few moments. But after all, he simply spilled some coffee. Why is this guy acting like he’s just committed a crime?  And he also has the audacity to humiliate him.

“With all due respect, professor” he clears his voice “I’m sorry, but I feel like you’re exaggerating.”

Basilton Pitch raises an eyebrow, as if he can’t believe someone’s arguing with him.

“And- and if it weren’t for all this- this _banter_ you’re causing, you’d be able to continue your class. “

“Out. Now.” He growls, with finality.

Simon grabs his jacket and his books hastily and doesn’t even bother to say goodbye. He angrily exits the classroom and leaves the door open behind him.

The last thing he hears are his professor’s “have a nice walk”.

-

The cafe is almost crowded by the time Simon ends up entering the door, having cleaned his sneakers in the college’s bathroom.

He’s pathetically frustrated. He knew this guy seemed to perfect to be real. He can’t even believe he’s had one of those stupid professor-crushes on him.

He decides to push down his irritation, bottle it up somewhere it can’t be found again, because he won’t allow that prick bring any negativity into his life.

He smiles politely at Alice, the dark haired girl that’s waitressing today.

“Morning, Alice. The usual, please.”

“I’ll bring it to your table, Simon. How’s your morning?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, which elicits a laugh from her.

“That good, huh?”

“Don’t even ask.”

He takes a seat at the closest table to the counter. It’s got a pretty nice view of the hectic sidewalk, people hurrying everywhere.

He’s too busy scrolling on instagram and sipping his dark coffee to notice the person standing in front of him. It takes a clearing of a throat for him to look up.

He immediately wishes he had taken a more secluded, cornered table. Although there are not  really any, considering the time of the day.

“Mr Snow” Basilton Pitch clears his throat again “I- I’m sorry to interrupt. I’d like to express my apologies. I think I might have reacted a bit..” he bites his lip, searching for the right word “extra.”

Simon chuckles dryly.  It’s surprising he came to apologize. He’s getting an apology from his professor. From the cold, reserved, witty person who basically threw him out of class this morning for spilling his coffee.

“It was a bit more than extra, if you ask me.”

Basilton Pitch is still standing there, not daring to ask for a seat.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Wishing to humiliate me in front of my waitress friend, as well?” he smirks

The professor looks down, as if he’s mildly ashamed of his actions. He’s slightly smiling.

“I-“

“Have a seat, since you’re here.” Simon invites suddenly, not fully realizing what’s overcome him.

The dark haired guy nods and sits opposite him.

“It’s rare that someone stands up to me like you did today.” He chuckles, playing with the cover of his cup.  “I guess my ego’s not used to it.”

“That’s because everyone’s blinde-“ his eyes widen and he cuts himself before finishing the sentence.

He’s almost said that everyone’s blinded by how perfect he seems.

“Blinded by what?”

Simon blinks. Once. Twice.

“Your-your status, Mr Pitch. Yes. As, um, as a professor. I’m not.”

“That’s good to know, I suppose. And, Mr. Snow, I’m here because I happen to enjoy the coffee here. Usually I like to take a more secluded area, but considering how crowded it’s today..” he shrugs

It feels awkward for a moment. Being so.. _personal_ with him. He feels a bit uneasy.

A few moments of silence. They both keep sipping on their coffees, and the air is rather tensioned.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, but, for your information, you haven’t really lost much of today’s class.”  The professor offers

“Is this you trying to make up for you mini-tantrum, Mr. Pitch?”

He shakes his head, laughing slightly.

“You’re right. I’m taking that back.”

Simon notices his habit of picking to the paper stuck to the cup. He finds it stupid. And maybe endearing.

“Alright, well I’m gonna go read The Birthmark now.” Simon gets up and shoots him a last glance.

“Have a good reading.” he then grabs his arm for a moment as Simon passes next to him “And also, you know you can call me Basilton when we’re not in class, right? Don’t make me feel so old.”

Simon smiles “You know, Basilton, you’re much more human outside that classroom. You could implement that trait during creative writing as well. Just a tip.” He raises both arms apologetically

The last thing he sees is Basilton’s shake of his head.

-

It’s 10 on Saturday morning and Simon doesn’t have any class. Nor other activities. Thankfully.

He’s an early bird, so he couldn’t really sleep in, as he had planned the night before.  So there he is, sitting at his usual table in the cafe. It’s not as full as normally, probably because few people in their right minds decide to wake up this early.

He’s struggling with the forty seventh page of The Birthmark. The way Mr. Pi- _Basilton_ presented it in class made it feel more interesting than it actually is.

Reading it seems just.. dull. He figures it would be more efficient if they’d been given a prompt to write on. At least that way they’d have practically improved.

He’s just planning on reading five more pages and then giving it up for the day, and maybe even putting it off for good and just reading a short analysis online.

As if on cue, the glass door opens and a tall man enters, shaking the droplets of rain off his dark blue umbrella.

It takes a moment for Simon to recognise him as Basilton Pitch, the one who gave him the horrendous task of reading such an atrocity.  He’s not wearing the usual suit and tie Simon’s normally used to. Instead he’s waring a grey hoodie and black jeans. Simon’s trying to decide if this makes him more or less attractive than usual.

They’ve run into each other at the cafe yesterday as well, and this time it was Simon that stopped by Basilton’s table for a few minutes, while waiting for his cup of coffee. The professor invited him to take a seat, but he had to decline as he was in a hurry.

He doesn’t notice Simon at first, but the blond guy’s short wave seems to catch his eye.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Mr. Snow” Basilton approaches his table.

“Yeah, well I’m trying to figure out  what’s so fascinating about this- this thing.” He gestures towards the book.

“I’ll take this as an invitation to sit and have a talk about it.” He grins

It’s the first time Simon sees him grinning. It’s a beautiful sight. The way his face embraces the curve of his lips and white teeth.

“By all means, explain.”

“ The birthmark does not become an issue to Aylmer until after the marriage, which he suddenly sees as sexual: "now vaguely portrayed, now lost, now stealing forth again, and glimmering to-and-fro with every pulse of emotion". Written shortly after Hawthorne married Sophia Peabody, the story emphasizes the husband's sexual guilt disguised as superficial cosmetology.” He seems so invested in what he explains, and his noble-kind traits can be noticed even in such a mundane clothing.

Simon blinks. He errupts in a laugh, which leaves Basilton confused.

“I’m sorry, Baz.” He doesn’t even realise the nickname that’s escaped his lips, but Basilton does, and it plants him a small smirk on his features “I didn’t understand a thing.”

“Aylmer's pursuit of perfection is both tragic and allegorical. The irony of Aylmer's obsession and pursuit is that he was a man whose "most splendid successes were almost invariably failures." Rather than obsessing over correcting his failures, he quickly forgets them. Similarly, instead of obsessing over Georgiana's splendid beauty, he quickly forgets it. That a man of so many failures would be trying to perfect someone else is both ironic and allegorical.”

“Does this mean that someone who’s accomplished has the right of perfecting someone else?” Simon asks curiously

“Well, yes, and no. We don’t really have the right to control anyone’s trait, nor adapt them to our liking. You see, Simon, perfection’s really subjective as well.”

“There are some things that are pretty objectively perfect, if you ask me.” He retorts

Baz quirks an eyebrow, playfully “Such as?”

_You. You’re ridiculously perfectly appearing. It’s almost irritating._

“I don’t know. I’ll think of some and tell you next time, alright?”

The sparkle in Baz’s eyes says it all. He nods, a smile gracing his face.

They spend a few moments like that, simply gazing at each other, and it feels oddly familiar and comfortable. As if they weren’t just strangers a little while ago.

“Next time.” Baz breaks the silence.

Without each other’s knowledge, they both wonder what they’ve got into.

But all that matters is that ‘next time’. And hopefully the following ‘next time’ after that.


End file.
